


Whumptober 2019 - Stranger Things

by sternenblumen



Series: Whumptober 2019 [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Claustrophobia, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Panic Attacks, Polyamory, Post-Season/Series 03, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-11-10 19:40:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20857181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternenblumen/pseuds/sternenblumen
Summary: Short fics for the Whumptober 2019 prompts - see chapter summaries for more details.





	1. Shaking hands (Dustin)

**Author's Note:**

> These will be short, rough and unpolished since I didn't write ahead but am writing and posting as I go. Tags will be updated along the way. I hope you enjoy them!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something catches up with Dustin after the Battle at Starcourt Mall.

It was not supposed to be like this.

One moment, Dustin was finally, _finally_, closing his bedroom door behind him, his whole body turning to lead at the sight of his bed. He had made it through the aftermath, through Doc Owen’s men questioning and briefing them on the cover story once he and Erica had finally been picked up from the Weathertop, through his mom arriving and frantically fussing over him until she was sure he was fine - and he was, he’d been lucky, like others hadn’t been, like Hopper hadn’t been - and the drive home, and now he was _home_, and it was _over_, and he only wanted to sleep for a year. Or maybe not quite so long, or he would still be asleep when this shit came around again like clockwork … But for now, it was over.

And then he switched on his bedside lamp, and there was a sudden flash of light and a shower of sparks as the bulb burst, burning his hands when he yanked them back.

And then it wasn’t over anymore because his throat closed up, and his chest felt tight, and all he could see when he closed his eyes were sparks, sparks jumping from a metal rod in his hands, racing up to the chest of a man, the body jerking as he pushed the rod against him mercilessly. 

Dustin barely noticed how his legs turned to jelly and he slipped down next to his bed, slumping against it with one shoulder, which was all that kept him from falling to the floor the whole way. His chest was burning, heaving desperately but somehow failing to get in much air. His eyes opened, and his gaze fell to his hands, the hands that had held that rod. And that had held on until the man was on the floor. The hands that had been steady as they sent however many volts into the man’s body. 

They were shaking now, so strongly that the image was blurry. They hadn’t been shaking then. How was it possible that they hadn’t been shaking when he had killed a man?

He gasped, half to get in more air, half at the thought. He had killed him. He knew it, even if they hadn’t stuck around to see what became of him. He had killed him, without hesitation, without remorse. It had been for Steve and Robin. But he had.

His vision was tunnelling, bright sparks popping up even without him closing his eyelids, and he sobbed helplessly around the vice squeezing his chest, cutting off his air. It felt like he was dying, and at this moment, he wondered if that wasn’t fair. He had killed, he was a monster.

Behind him, the door crashed open, and he flinched as someone appeared at his side. A voice was talking, and there were hands touching him, but all he could do was shrink away from them and try to breathe but he couldn’t, he couldn’t …

The hands captured his face, holding it still, and a face swam into his dimming vision, a familiar face, and the voice became clearer. “… breathe, Dusty,” it was saying, “you have to breathe! Slowly, like so - in and out, in and out.” As it was speaking, the face was demonstrating it by taking exaggerated deep breaths, and Dustin tried to follow but his chest was so tight and it was so hard …

It felt like ages but finally, his breaths slowed, and he was no longer gasping for air like a fish on dry land. He slumped in his mom’s grip, and she pulled him against her. “Dusty, what happened?” she asked anxiously. “Are you hurt?”

He slightly shook his head, still concentrating on drawing in air, his lungs burning. She didn’t ask again but instead wrapped her arms around him, lightly rocking him back and forth while comforting words spilled off her lips: “It’s okay, baby, you’re safe. Your momma is here. Nothing will happen to you, I promise. You’re safe, everything is okay.”

Dustin heaved a last huge breath of air and buried his head into his mom’s shoulder, smelling sweetly of honey and Tews and warmth and safety, and he let himself fall. But even as he curled up in her lap, his hands were still shaking.


	2. Delirium (Will)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Upside-Down keeps coming back for Will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is reading, leaving kudos and comments! I might not get around to answering comments but rest assured that I read and love them all!

Will checked his bag again. He had his folder with his character sheet, of course, his manual, just in case, his sketchbook, for doodling during breaks - or in the event that Dustin went off the deep end in one of his songs again, or that Lucas and Mike started arguing rules again, because he could only listen for so long before losing his mind ... Alright. He closed the bag and leaned back, listening, but the house was quiet.

"Mooom!" he called. "Can we go now? We'll be late!"

No answer. He sighed and got to his feet, shouldering his bag. If the mountain did not come to the prophet ... He trudged through the house, looking into the rooms as he went, despite the fact that his mom would not be hiding from him in Jonathan's room. That she hadn't heard him pointed towards her being outside. Still. Maybe he was killing time and dragging his feet a bit more than necessary because while he didn't want to be late, he was feeling rather resentful about the whole thing.

But biking to Mike's house for D&D had been out of the question since last November.

Finally, he opened the back door and looked outside, and there she was. Joyce was standing next to the garden shed, one shoulder propped against the wall, smoking. Her eyes were idly following the whispy trail of smoke rising from her cigarette but she seemed to be far away, and Will felt some of his resentment drain away like it always did. She looked both so strong and at the same time so lost that it made his heart ache. In a world that had never been particularly wonderful for the Byers family, he had always known that she would fight for him like a lioness, and when it had expanded to encompass an entire new terrifying dimension last year, she had proved it again. But who was there to fight for her?

He shook his head and called out: "Mom?"

This time she heard him, and her eyes lit up when they met his. This look made the last bit of anger dissolve. How could he be angry at her when she was looking at him as if he was a miracle, something more precious than all the gold in the world? And he understood, he really did ... It was just difficult when he was aching for things to be normal again, if there even was a normal after all of this.

She pushed away from the wall of the shed with her shoulder and walked over to the house, towards him. "Yeah baby, what is it?" she asked.

Will raised his bag. "I'm ready to go," he told her. "Can we go? I don't want to be late."

At her confused look, he clarified: "To Mike? D&D? Jonathan said he told you that he can't take me."

"Oh," she breathed and then shook herself, nodding. "Of course. Sorry, honey, I forgot the time. Give me a few minutes, okay? Here, you can go and sit in the car already, I'll be there right away." She dug through her pockets until she held up her car keys triumphantly and tossed them at him.

Will fumbled catching them - she should know better, there was a reason he was always picked last during PE, even later than Mike and Dustin - but managed to hold onto the key ring pendant in the last second. "Okay. But hurry, we'll be late!"

"Yeah, yeah." She waved him off and disappeared into her bedroom as he made his way to the front door. He sighed, still a bit exasperated, then opened the door and stepped outside.

... and stepped into a nightmare. The sky was dark, and everything was painted in greys and blacks. The porch under his feet creaked ominously. Sticky cobwebs covered the railing where his fingers brushed against it, and his skin crawled at the feeling. The yard in front of the house was covered in thick, sinewy veins, his mom's car nearly vanishing beneath them, white flakes were drifting through the bitter-tasting air.

"No," Will croaked. The air seemed to stick in his lungs, and he was suddenly cold, so cold. But that wasn't possible! They had brought him out of there! He was home, he was safe, and he had survived the Upside-Down! He couldn't be there! He couldn't! He was home!

"... Will?"

"... Will! Honey, please!"

It took endless, painful moments until he recognised the voice calling his name. He blinked, closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, his mom's face filled his field of vision, eyes huge and worried. "Will, what's the matter?" she asked as her hands encircled his face, carefully cupping his cheeks. "Are you okay, honey?"

He raised his hands to grab her wrists, feeling suddenly shaky and weak. "I'm ... I'm okay, mom," he replied and didn't believe a single word himself. "Just ... I don't know."

Joyce brushed his hair back, automatically feeling his forehead. "You're white as a sheet," she said. "Did ..." Her voice caught in her throat.

Will took a step back and felt warmth rise in his cheek. Of course he hadn't been back in the Upside-Down. It wasn't here. "It was ... it was another episode," he finally admitted. He hated saying it, he hated the look of utter heartbreak that the words made appear on Joyce's face, he hated how her hands closed around his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin just a little bit too hard as if she could anchor him to reality.

"Oh baby," she said, pulling him into her arms and wrapping them around him protectively. "It's okay. You're here, you're safe. We got another appointment with that Doc Owens next week, maybe he knows something."

He nodded weakly against her chest, even though the thought of going back to the lab held no comfort for him, no matter how much Doc Owen called him Sir Will and tried to be nice to him. For a few minutes, he just let himself rest against her, relishing the feeling of her fingers stroking his hair, while she murmured comfort and his breathing slowly returned to a normal rhythm.

Finally, he gently freed himself from her hold and ran a hand over his face, took a deep breath. "I'm okay," he told her. "Can we go to Mike now, please?"

Joyce gnawed her lips anxiously. "Maybe you should stay home, sweetheart," she started, "you're so pale--"

"No!" he interrupted her and flinched at how loud his voice was. More quietly, he repeated: "No, mom, please. Don't make me stay, I--" His voice caught in his throat. "I want to go. Please. I need to go." He would go mad if he had to stay home and spend the next few hours with nothing but his thoughts. He needed his friends, he needed Dustin and Lucas bickering over who was hogging the chips bowl and trading Skittles flavours, he needed Mike's excited narration as they prepared for the next battle, he needed Will the Wise, not Will the small and scared ...

Joyce studied him a moment longer but finally nodded. "Okay, baby. Just ... Promise me that you'll call me if you feel worse, okay? I'll be there to pick you up at any time."

"I will," Will promised even though he had no intention to do such a thing. He took a step back and was relieved when the wood beneath him creaked the same way it had every day when he stepped onto the porch all his life. He looked around the yard again, taking in its vine-free state, the sky light with only a few clouds drifting over it, and how the early June air was warm on his skin. Then he looked at his mom again, smiling just a little bit. "Let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm, after finishing it, I kinda feel this doesn’t fit the prompt very well, and it’s also somewhat similar to my day 1 fic? Well, it is what it is.
> 
> First time writing Will, I hope I did him justice.
> 
> Also, I’m hoping to alternate writing for ST and The Musketeers, so expect ST fics on odd days and Muskies on even days. (Though I’m willing to be flexible if one prompt really wants to be one specific fandom or maybe even one that isn’t ST or Muskies …)


	3. At gunpoint (Eleven & the Party)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The bad men get Lucas first. Can El get her Papa to let him go?_
> 
> Canon divergence for 1x07 - what if Brenner and his men had managed to catch Lucas?

"The bad men are coming!", Lucas' voice echoed from the walkie, sounding distorted and crackly, but there was no misunderstanding his words.

Mike raised his head and stared at Dustin and El. "Bad men, does that mean anything to you?" the other boy asked cluelessly.

"Bad men," Eleven whispered. She surged to her feet, looking around desperately for a way out. They could not find her here, or they would take her back to the lab and hurt Mike and Dustin!

Mike started, stretching out a hand towards her, but then the walkie burst into noise – there was a scream from who she was almost certain was Lucas, tires screeching and a bang. And then silence as Mike urgently yelled into the radio: "Lucas! Lucas, do you copy?! Lucas!"

A few heartbeats passed, and then a new voice issued from the radio. El felt her insides turn to ice. "Eleven," her Papa said. "I know you're there."

The two boys stared at her, and she could do nothing but stare back. How could Papa know where she was? And if he was using Lucas' radio ...

"I have your little friend here, Eleven," Papa continued. "You remember what happened to the nice man you met the first day, don't you? I don't think you want the same thing to happen to your little black friend."

She closed her eyes and swallowed. He had Lucas.

Lucas was not her friend. He didn't like her, he had called her a psycho – whatever that meant – and a traitor and a monster – and she knew exactly what that meant – and had fought with Mike ...

But that didn't mean she wanted him to _die_! And he was Mike and Dustin's friend.

She opened her eyes again and looked at Mike, gave him the most resolute look she could muster as she held out her hand for the walkie. He looked like he wanted to protest but then swallowed and handed it over. She pressed the button and said: "What do you want?" At the last moment, she bit back the "Papa".

"Eleven," he said, and his voice was so soft that it made her want to cry and hide somewhere at the same time. "I'm glad to hear your voice again."

She steeled herself. "What do you want?" she repeated.

"I want you to come home, Eleven. Come home, and nothing will happen to your friend."

She looked up into the wide eyes of the two boys. She couldn't ... she couldn't ... But she couldn't allow more people to get hurt because of her.

She pressed the button and said: "Yes."

* * *

Mike argued with her all the way to the intersection of Cherry and Elm Street – "Ask your other little friends, they can tell you where you need to go" – but she was not listening. He was not listening either, anyway – she had told them not to come but neither he nor Dustin had been willing to stay behind, pushing their bikes alongside her.

Papa was standing at the intersection, waiting for her. Around him were several other men in suits and overalls. One of them was holding Lucas pressed against him, and he had a gun in his other hand, pointing it at his temple. Lucas looked terrible, there was blood on his face, and his trousers were dirty and torn. His dark eyes were so wide that there was a ring of white showing all the way around. Behind her, Dustin cursed loudly: "Oh shit, Lucas!"

Eleven stepped forward. "I'm here, Papa," she said. "Let Lucas go."

He smiled at her. "Come here," he ordered, spreading his arms. And why did some part of her want to go to him, to have him hug her, when everything else in her wanted to run away again?

She shook her head and stood her ground. "Lucas first," she insisted.

Papa's face twisted for a moment, then smoothed out again to bland friendliness. "You're such a stubborn girl," he said. "Alright." He jerked his head at the man holding Lucas, and he took the pistol down, using the other hand on the boy's shoulder to push him forward, towards his friends who eagerly wrapped him into a hug.

But then Papa flicked his hand, and the men around him drew guns and aimed them at her friends. Eleven clenched her fists. "Just a little bit encouragement," he said with a smile, "to remind you that you better be a good girl now. Come. Here."

"El, no!" Mike cried out as she made a step forward. She looked over her shoulder at him and tried to smile, then turned back to Papa and demanded: "Promise that you won't hurt them."

He looked at her quizzically. "Promise?"

She nodded resolutely. "Promise."

Papa shrugged his shoulders. "Alright, I promise," he said.

"Then I'm coming home," she said. Looking back over her shoulder again, she smiled at Mike, Dustin and Lucas, then she started walking, crossing the few steps to Papa's side. "Good girl," he said and put a hand on her shoulder, turning her around towards the vans standing behind them. "Get rid of them," he murmured as he passed the man closest to him.

Eleven froze. "No!" she cried out. "You promised!"

His fingers dug painfully into her shoulder. "You've been a bad girl, Eleven," he said. "You know someone needs to be punished for it."

Something hot and red swelled in Eleven's gut and broke free of her as she screamed: "_NO!_" A pressure wave erupted from her, and Papa's grip slipped from her shoulder as he was thrown back, landing hard on the asphalt. Panting, she turned around and saw that the men had been thrown, too – and so had Mike, Lucas and Dustin. She stared at them with horror. She had hurt them again! A sob tore from her throat, and she turned to flee. She kept hurting people, she just couldn't be here where her friends were getting hurt because of her!

But she had barely taken two steps when a hand grabbed her arm and she wheeled around to come face to face with Lucas. He still looked scared and roughed up, but he tugged at her arm with a new kind of determination. "The bikes!" he called. "Come on, El!" Behind them, Mike and Dustin scrambled to their feet. "Come on!" Lucas called to them, too. "We've got to go!" The men were also starting to move and get up. "Come on, come on!" he chanted as he pulled her over to Mike and pushed her at him, then turned to Dustin. "Let's go!"

They didn't need to be told twice. Eleven barely knew how she got on Mike's bike but she did, and then they were racing across the grass away from the street, Lucas riding on the back of Dustin's bike. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against Mike's back as he pedalled with all his might. They still wanted her to stay, they were still helping her. They were still her friends.

Maybe Lucas was her friend, too, after all.


	4. Isolation (Eleven)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A training day does not have the results Brenner expects from Eleven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I went a bit too heavy on the plot in the last few ficlets, so I’m trying to concentrate more on the prompts and the emotions of the characters again. At least that’s what I’m aiming for …

The girl looked up as the door opened. The man standing in it was one of the orderlies – she never got told their names, and they never tried to be friendly to her, so she didn't care to learn to recognise them. Behind him was Papa, and he was the one to step forward and stretch out a hand towards her. "Come, Eleven," he said, "it's time for your training."

The girl nodded and got to her feet, the loose gown swishing around her knees. As if there was ever anything other than training. At one point, she had been taken from her room sometimes to meet a nice lady who taught her some numbers and letters, enough to know that the tattoo at her wrist was her name in numbers – Eleven. And she vaguely remembered there had been a time when she had been allowed to play in a different room, and there had been another girl, small like her, not like the many adults who were always around her, but with darker skin and hair. She didn't know if she had imagined that, though, because the memory was fainter every day. And it had been a long time since she had left her room for anything other than training ...

She obediently padded along behind the men, her bare feet silent on the cold floor. She quite liked training. It was good to get to leave her room for a bit and do something, and it made Papa happy. So she let him guide her to a chair and slip the scratchy electrode net onto her shaved head. Then he placed a can before her, painted in red and white with swirly letters on it. "I want you to crush it," he said.

She looked up at him, frowning. "Crush?" she asked, her voice scratchy like it always was when she had not spoken for a while. She did not think she had crushed anything before.

He nodded. "Yes. Press it together," he explained, holding out a hand and curling it into a fist.

She frowned again but then nodded slightly and turned her attention back to the can. She had made similar things fall over and slide over the table but not pressed them together ... She stared at it, trying to imagine a fist closing around it and squeezing.

Nothing happened.

She looked up at Papa, and he had his lips pressed together in a tight line of disappointment. "Try again," he ordered.

She did. And again, and again when he told her so. A few times she thought she saw some slight impressions appear in the side of the can but it remained stubbornly uncrushed. Finally, she slumped back and wiped under her nose, smearing the blood that had collected on her upper lip.

When she looked up again, Papa was standing over her, his face a mask of unhappiness, and she hated that she had not been able to make him happy. She liked making him happy. But she was so tired ...

"Try again," he said. She shook her head. "I can't," she whispered, unhappy and ashamed.

"You can! You have to try harder!" he said, seizing her arm in a strong grip.

"No!" She tried to pull back but he just gripped her arm harder so that it started aching.

"Try!"

She shook her head helplessly, tears starting to form at the corners of her eyes. "I can't!"

He released her arm and took a step back. He looked at her silently, then sighed and knelt down next to her. "I don't want to do this, Eleven," he said softly. "But you leave me no choice. You're not doing what I ask you to. You're a bad girl."

"I'm sorry, Papa," she whispered, unsure what he was talking about but suddenly afraid.

He sighed again as he rose. "I'm sorry, too." Then he nodded at the orderly standing in the corner, and the man came forward and grabbed her arm, dragging her out of the chair and behind him as he followed Papa from the room. She struggled but could not get free from his grip. "Papa!" she cried. "What's happening? Papa!"

Papa did not look back at her. He strode along the corridor calmly but purposefully, and the orderly dragged her along behind him, no matter how much she struggled.

Finally, Papa stopped in front of a door and opened it. "I want you to think about how bad you have been today, Eleven," he said. "And the next time, you will be a good girl again, won't you?"

He made a gesture at the orderly, and she was suddenly flung through the door. She landed hard on the floor, and the door closed, plunging the room into darkness. She cried out but there was no reply, and when she sat up and stretched out her arms, she found nothing but smooth walls on all sides.

The walls and the darkness suddenly closed in on her. She had thought she had been alone before but here, darkness was a crushing weight. She curled herself into a small ball, burying her head in her knees. "Papa, I don't want to be bad. Papa, come back. Papa!"


	5. 11. Stitches (Max, Lucas, Erica)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erica and Lucas fight a lot but in the end, they’re family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time writing Erica, I hope she is IC. Also very rough and off-the-cuff.

"Hey!"

Lucas smiled at her. "Hi!" He grabbed Max's hand and pulled her towards him, giving her a quick kiss. When he let her go again, his face clouded over, though. "I'm sorry, Max, I can't come out today."

"Huh?" Max raised an eyebrow at her boyfriend. "Did you get grounded?"

Lucas rolled his eyes. "I'd actually prefer that," he grumbled. Louder, he continued: "No, Mom and Dad had to go to some appointment they forgot about, so--" he hooked his thumb over his shoulder towards the living room, "I'm stuck with her."

From behind him, she could hear Erica's voice: "Screw you, Lucas!"

Max laughed. "Babysitting?" At his answering nod, she smiled and gave him a little push into the house. "I'll help. We can just hang out here."

His face lit up, and he seized her hand again, squeezing it. "You're awesome – thank you."

Max just nodded – it was not much of a sacrifice. As much as she liked going to the arcade and hanging out with the rest of the Party, there was a reason Lucas was her boyfriend, after all. Time spent with him was always enjoyable.

Plus, even though Erica antagonised Lucas at every turn, Max actually liked her. She was an unstoppable bundle of self-confidence and sass and able to take down her boyfriend a peg or two which he sometimes needed. Max couldn't be solely responsible for that.

She trailed behind Lucas into the living room where Erica was curled up on the couch and was watching something on TV. "Max and I are going up to my room," he told her, "so call if you need anything. Remember, one hour, and then you turn the TV off, understood?"

Erica rolled her eyes at him. "Yeah, yeah," she answered. "Hi, Max!"

"Hi, Erica!" Max smiled at her. "How's everything?"

"Well, apart from being stuck here with this dumbass, as if I need a babysitter ..." Erica waved lazily at her brother, "things are good. Go suck face with him, so he leaves me alone."

Lucas groaned. "Eeeerica ..." He pulled her name apart like chewing gum.

"Luuucas," she mimicked him. "What's your problem? Go spend time with your girlfriend, so you don't have to bother me, and I don't bother you."

Lucas threw up his hands. "That's all I want!"

"Well, then you have it!"

Max watched the back-and-forth with a raised eyebrow, amused. She never got tired of watching those two bicker because it never escalated above complaining and mild insults. What a difference to her home life ... But finally, she took Lucas' arm and pulled him away. "Come on, let's go suck face or something!" She grinned up at him and then back at Erica who mimed throwing up but then flashed her a bright grin.

They spent the next half hour or so in his room (not only sucking face, thank you very much) when suddenly a loud crash disrupted the relative quiet of the house. Lucas looked up, frowning. "What's the plague doing now?" he murmured. The next moment, a wail rose up from below, and Max sat up on Lucas' bed. "That--" She didn't even manage to finish the sentence before Lucas was already up and across the room, wrenching the door open. She scrambled to follow him as quickly as she could.

When she reached the Sinclairs' kitchen, she stopped dead in her tracks. Erica sat on the floor, her hands wrapped around her right leg, crying up a storm, and there was blood smeared all over the kitchen tiles, mixed with the cold glitter of broken glass. Lucas was crouched before his sister, his eyes wide, his hands hovering over her leg. "Erica, calm down," he pleaded with her, "tell me what happened, where are you hurt?"

Max quickly crossed the remaining distance and dropped into a crouch next to them, placing a calming hand on the younger girl's arm. "Let us see," she urged her.

Erica hiccupped but finally managed to unwrap her hands from her leg. "It's bleeding so much," she whimpered. "Make it stop, Lucas!"

Lucas gave Max a helpless look but took a deep breath and pulled Erica's hands carefully away from her leg. There was a long, deep slice running up her leg from her ankle, bleeding freely. "Oh shit, Erica, how did you do that?!"

"I didn't do it on purpose, you idiot! I dropped a glass!" A bit of her usual spark lit up in Erica's eyes but was quickly extinguished as she bit her lip, fresh tears welling up. "It really, really hurts," she sobbed, and it reminded Max painfully that for all her precocious lip, Erica was still only ten years old.

She looked from the wound which was really bleeding a lot to her boyfriend. She was good at first aid but this looked as if it needed more than a plaster or even a bandage ... "We should get you to the hospital," she said. "That could need stitches."

Erica blanched and grabbed Lucas' sweater, hiding her face against his chest. "No!" she wailed. "No, I don't want that!"

Lucas rubbed her back and looked uncertainly from her to Max and down at the wound again. "Hey, Erica, Max knows a lot about first aid. When she says you need a hospital, I'm sure she's right," he told her. "And you want it to stop bleeding and hurting, don't you?"

Max squeezed Erica's arm in sympathy. "I'll grab your first aid kit so we can bandage it for the time being," she said to Lucas. "Bathroom, right?"

"Yep, left door above the sink," he replied. "Thanks, Max!"

She smiled at him, then jogged quickly to the bathroom. Luckily, Lucas' parents were the kind who kept their medicine cabinet well-stocked, and she was back quickly with a cotton pad and two rolls of bandages. Lucas readily let her do the bandaging while he held Erica, soothing her with small touches as she still clung to him, quietly crying. When Max had finished, she looked at him and asked: "Uh, how do we get her to the hospital, though? I don't think letting her ride on the back of your bike is the best idea."

Lucas frowned and rubbed a hand over his hair. "Good question. We could go over to Mike and see if his parents or Nancy can take us?" The Wheelers only lived a few doors down the road.  
Max nodded, relieved. That was a good solution. "I'll go," she offered. "You stay with her."

He gave her another thankful look and nodded before going back to comforting his sister. Max almost smiled as she got up and left the kitchen. No matter their bickering, they were family, after all. It was only almost a smile, though, because she truly felt for Erica.

It turned out neither Mike nor his parents were home but luckily, Nancy was – with Jonathan, which was lucky since she wouldn't have had a car otherwise. But they only needed to hear Max's short description of what happened to get up and snatch jackets and car keys. Soon enough, she and Lucas were helping Erica into the backseat of Jonathan's old car. She had stopped crying except for the occasional sniffle or hiccup but there were still tear streaks on her cheeks, and she was refusing to let go of Lucas' hand. Lucas met Max's eyes over her head and shrugged helplessly. She shook her head at him – really, she thought it was sweet.

It turned out, while a cut in the leg was not a huge emergency, kids still got pretty quick treatment. It took maybe half an hour until a doctor saw them and confirmed Max's assessment: the wound needed stitches. This prompted another round of tears from Erica but Lucas remained patiently at her side, stroking her back and telling her: "It'll be okay. I'm sure they'll make it quick. And I'm here, I promise, I'll be here the whole time." And he was, as was Max, while the (older and a bit tired but not unfriendly) doctor cleaned the cut to ensure there was no glass in it and closed it with a few stitches.

Later, when they were again sitting in the back of Jonathan's car on the way back and Max was watching Erica leaning her head against Lucas' shoulder, she thought that Erica and Lucas were really lucky to have each other. She hoped that deep down, they knew it, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the idea for the injury is actually taken from the same happening to me (glass (bottle), tiled kitchen floor, shard to the leg). Mine was not quite so severe as I made it for poor Erica here but I still have the scar.


	6. 15. Scars (Nancy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nancy, Jonathan, Steve and their scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Low-key Stoncy, whee! Just a short and sweet one today :).

Sometimes, Nancy wonders why she doesn't hate their scars.

Those are the days when she looks at the thin line bisecting her palm, and it all comes flooding back. The monster in the flashing multicolour of the Christmas lights, its scream, the terrible flower of its head opening and threatening to eat Jonathan. Barb, the last time she saw her and told her to go home. A dead and twisted thing in this strange, cold, rotting place, and a small girl in a pink dress sobbing "Gone, gone, _gone_" in Joyce's arms.

She stretches out her hand and takes Jonathan's, alining their scars. Doing so makes it hurt less, makes her feel warm and less alone. They did this together.

Jonathan doesn't wake, just snuffles in his sleep and rolls closer to her. She smiles, even if it is tipped with sadness at the edges.

She turns to her other side, facing Steve. He is sleeping facing her, and she lets her fingers lightly trace over the left side of his face. His are less noticeable, less prominent ... less shared. The biggest one, where Billy broke a plate on his head, is hidden beneath his hair, so most of them are just traces of where the skin has split under the beatings he took – so many times. For him, it hurts the most to know that he got all of his scars alone.

Nancy bends forward and presses a light kiss to his brow. He is not alone now. None of them is.

There are days when their scars are her favourite thing about them.

Because they have them. Because they are still here. Because those wounds have healed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually got the idea partially because I realised that the majority of the injuries Steve got over the years centred on the left side of his face. What's up with that?


	7. 17. "Stay with me!" (Joyce/Hopper)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing scene for S3x3/S3x4 - Joyce takes care of a hurt Hopper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a bit of Jopper - apparently, I’m trying out writing for all the ships in this challenge :).

Joyce stood back, looking at Hopper laid out on his sofa, and bit her lip. It had seemed the best way at the time to take him home but maybe she should have taken him to the hospital? What if there was something seriously wrong with him, something she could not see?

Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself. He would be fine – he had been responsive earlier and had been able to walk or well, do something that could be classified as walking, even if he had put so much weight on her that she had been afraid she'd collapse before he did, and they had been moving agonisingly slow. So she would treat his wounds (_bruises, just bruises_, she reminded herself) and prepare everything for when he woke up. He probably had a concussion – good thing she remembered hearing about that after Steve had gotten beaten up in at her house last year, so she knew what to expect. She would need to be ready for him to be nauseous and have a headache. So, something to throw up into – a prospect that didn't scare her much, as a mother, you get good at handling things like that – and pain killers.

She looked around the small cabin she had only been in a handful of times. The first aid kit, if he had something like that, was probably in the bathroom. Or there should be one in the Blazer outside. She picked her way to the bathroom and tried not to feel like an intruder while rifling through the tiny cupboard. No first aid kit, though she found some pain killers, so a trip to his truck was next, and she sighed in deep relief when she located the on-board kit in the footwell (where it definitely did not belong, what the hell, Hopper?). Back in the cabin, she did not find a bucket for any possible nausea-related mishaps, so she finally settled on a big pot from the kitchen area.

Armed with the first aid kit, some water and a few rags from the bathroom, Joyce looked down at him again – he hadn't so much as stirred while she gathered all of those things, and she felt her worry ratchet up once more. Before it could overwhelm her, she got moving, kneeling down next to him and starting to wrestle him out of his soaking wet uniform.

She was finished with his back – covered in a lot of bruises that already began darkening and looked painful but which she hoped were only superficial and not a sign of damage somewhere deeper – and had turned him over to get to those on his chest and face when he finally woke up again. A low groan first alerted her to his change in consciousness, and she moved to place a hand on his chest to prevent any sudden movements. "Hopper?" she asked in a low voice.

He blinked, unconsciously turning his head into the direction of her voice. He opened and closed his mouth a few times while unfocused eyes squinted at her. Finally, he settled on a weak, breathless "El?".

Joyce shook her head, leaning closer so he could see her better. "No, Hop, it's me. It's Joyce."

"Joyce," he repeated, still sounding dazed and not all there. He shifted and groaned again. "Ow," he said plaintively.

She felt a smile tug at her mouth for a moment. "I imagine," she said with a pat on his chest. "Rest, that's probably the best for you right now." With that, she withdrew her hand and moved to stand.

His eyes, already halfway to closed, flew open, and he stretched out his arm, trying to snatch for her wrist. The movement was clumsy, so his fingers only grazed her arm, and he looked at her almost pleadingly. "No ..."

Joyce hesitated but went back to her knees at his side. "What is it, Hopper? No what?"

"No," he repeated, his hand closing around her arm. "No ... Stay ..."

Her lips trembled, curving downwards. He sounded so desperate, so vulnerable – not like she knew her strong, capable friend at all. Taking a deep breath, she gently loosened his grip, turning her wrist and linking her fingers with his. Her mind automatically went back to their talk back at the laboratory. He'd wanted her to stay then, too ...

She squeezed his hand and pulled it towards her, gently brushing her lips over its back. "Of course, Hop. Of course, I'll stay," she told him.

She could not promise to stay in Hawkins, like he wanted her to. But today, she would stay by his side.


End file.
